


that's my secret

by shipwreckblue



Series: a smiling god [1]
Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Definite Canon Divergence, Gen, Gratuitous Stylistic Use of Italics, Spoilers for S4, Takes place after MAG 123, Theories on Melanie's Anger Issues, Weird Spooky Fuckery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-29
Updated: 2019-01-29
Packaged: 2019-10-18 13:35:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,251
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17581862
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shipwreckblue/pseuds/shipwreckblue
Summary: Melanie opens her eyes and blinks. She is facing a packet of crumpets spilled out on the floor. Basira’s voice is above her, a hand on her shoulder, skirted knees against her side, Basira is gathering her. Basira is saying, “What was that? It hurt, it felt like-What did you do?”Prompt fill from myTMA blog.





	that's my secret

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt was Melanie + the remaning Archival staff + **the chariot** : _sacrifice, struggle, travel_ ; “I’m sorry… I have to do this.”
> 
>  

Melanie never knows what time it is anymore. She stopped really carrying a phone around _back when_ _everything started to warp around the edges of her vision when she looked too long at elias, at jon, at anybody in the institute who wasn’t soundly a fellow prisoner_ and she never was much for wearing a watch. There used to be a little analog clock perched above the break area sink, near the electric kettle, but _that got_ _crunched over the head of something damp and dripping with too many teeth and_ it’s broken now, the face cracked; while it still ticks, it’s not exactly reliable. And like Basira is fond of putting it, the lightest way possible, they don’t get _out get out get out get_  out much anymore. So she doesn’t know what time it is when she slinks out from between the cramped shelves of files to take food from their cabinet stash.

Basira is there, tucked into a corner with the wall at her back the way they’ve both grown accustomed to standing lately. She is unwrapping a packet of crumpets. “Hey,” she says, softly, always softly, which Melanie appreciates these days. “You want one? I think Martin restocked us, there’s loads.”

Melanie shivers down a hot, bubbling discomfort at the thought of Martin, going out, the only one of them who can reliably handle errands anymore because things just tend to want to stay away,  _far away_   _from his cold, pained, distant husk_ , Melanie included. “Yeah. Fine.” She nods, moves closer along the wall. She takes the crumpet. It’s cold; their toaster doesn’t work anymore, _there is some kind of darkened gunk caked inside it_ and nobody is quite mechanically inclined enough to try and fix it. Her stomach wakes up at the first mouthful anyway, and she finishes it in four ravenous bites, too shaky to feel any shame from the way Basira silently holds out another one, which she snatches. “This doesn’t mean I’ve forgiven you for letting him in,” she says.

Basira nods. “I know.”

Two bites into the second crumpet and Melanie stops dead because there is a whisper. _a whisper around the corner, soft and menacing and laced with heady power and her hands with their dirty fingernails twitch and ache to dig into the throat of whoever-_  
_  
_ “What are you doing.” Basira’s voice rings out clearly through the silence of the archives, the dusty cluttered space in Melanie’s head. She looks at Basira, a question on her lips, but Basira isn’t looking at her. Her eyes are hard and focused on someone just over Melanie’s shoulder and out of sight. Melanie whips around immediately towards the shadow. The whispering does not stop, _drilling itself into her head and pushing through the gap with writhing, sticky tendrils, it is static in her ears, it is fog behind her eyes._ Melanie narrows her eyes.

Then she drops her food, opens her mouth _and_ _screams, barreling toward the bastard, the fucker, the impostor, determined to not let another word of his curse on them pass those sneering lips before she splits them with her fist and bashes his liar’s head in_ when he shouts a word and it echoes like the clash of cymbals in Melanie’s skull. Then another, _and she doesn’t know what he’s saying, can’t understand the language and beneath even that there is something layered to his voice that hurts her teeth, vibrates in her bones, makes the old bullet wound in her leg **throb.**_

_melanie falls to her knees, feels a clenching tug somewhere deep in her gut and nearly retches, hunched over herself, surrounded like a physical force with the resonance, the humming air, the theft of something buried intimately, an invading hand reaching in to disturb the settled silt at the bottom of a lake to draw out- and his voice is closer now, and it is trembling even if it is still unintelligible, and the hand on her bare shoulder is such a pure static shock that it almost bowls her over. something is gone. something is wrenched from her by force and she is…. She is…_

Drained. Exhausted. Wrung to her core. But the heat that’s lived in her since India is strangely absent.

Melanie opens her eyes and blinks. She is facing a packet of crumpets spilled out on the floor. Basira’s voice is above her, a hand on her shoulder, skirted knees against her side, Basira is gathering her. Basira is saying, “What was that? It hurt, it felt like- _What did you do?”_

Melanie turns her head and there slumped against a tall shelf of files is what used to be Jonathan Sims. His hair is on end like he just stuck a fork in a socket, there is a slightly burnt aroma to the air they’re all breathing, and a book is splayed open, spine up next to one of his hands. The title, which she can barely make out, is _A Theif's Craft._ As Melanie watches, it crackles slightly, and a little spark of current chases itself across the cover.

“What did you do?” Basira demands again, and whoever, whatever it is that looks like Jon begins to stir, pushing himself further upright, taking a short, gasping breath. He takes his glasses off with a trembling hand, looks at Melanie _and_   _there it is there it is there it is. the india heat. the regiment’s rage._ She feels it stinging her face like a sunburn.  

“I had to take it,” he rasps, turns his eyes on Basira and Melanie feels her flinch too. “It was consuming her, Basira, don’t you understand, now there’s- I- Oh.” He presses a hand to his chest, lets out a heavy, whistling breath. “That… That is a lot. I’ve never felt like this before.”

“Like what.” Basira is wary, suspicious.

Melanie already knows. She is so tired. “Never been that angry?” she asks.  
  
“No,” he breathes, “Not like this. Not ever.”

“I couldn’t even tell at first. It took months.” Her leg is throbbing still; she looks down and is unsurprised to find it sluggishly bleeding again, even though it’s been a long while since the wound closed. She closes her eyes briefly. Her whole body feels weighed down. “You can keep it,” she says.

“Yes, I think so,” he says, half to himself. “I am sorry about your leg, Melanie.” He starts to stand.

“That’s all right,” she mumbles. “Never really healed right, anyway.”

On instinct, Basira moves back, pulling Melanie with her. “This was a bad idea, Jon,” she says sharply. “What makes you think you can control it?”

What looks like Jon shakes his head, still seeming disoriented. “I don’t... But, I do think I can use it.” He picks up the book, blinks at it for a second as it throws one more tiny crackling arc into his skin, and then places it disinterestedly on the shelf. “You know, I might finally go have that chat with the esteemed Mr. Lukas.”

“Believe me, I’ve tried,” Melanie croaks. Her leg has stopped bleeding now, although her vision is swimming slightly.  “How do you expect to find him?”

He waves a dismissive hand, the way that the real Jon used to, Melanie remembers distantly, when Martin would ask,  _How are you doing? Are you all right?_

The new Jon smiles with unsettling warmth, and Melanie doesn’t like it. “Don’t worry," he says. "That won't be a problem. I already know exactly where he is.”

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you enjoyed! I kind of just banged this out in like, an hour, since it was a pretty short and sweet prompt fill. Let me know what y'all thought, and come say hi/send me more prompts [on tumblr.](https://lostjonscave.tumblr.com/)
> 
>  
> 
> ~~yeah the title's a dumb hulk joke, don't look at me.~~


End file.
